


Little Prince on B612

by Run_of_the_mill



Series: Little Prince and the Rose [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Tiny Aviator, A Tiny Boy, A Tiny Fox, A Tiny Geographer, A Tiny King, A Tiny Rose, A Tiny Snake, Don't you know me by now, Eventual Happy Ending, I GUESS IT'S FLUFF, I was reading The Little Prince, I'm honestly not sure, M/M, Of course I had to add angst, brief major character death, but it's not permanent, it's a bit shorter than my usual, this came out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16658447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Run_of_the_mill/pseuds/Run_of_the_mill
Summary: In the back of Knockturn Alley, there is a small Apothecary where Tom meets a mysterious young man who draws him a tiny sheep in a crate with three little holes. Tom takes it home.Does this mean Tom is no longer a dull, drab, adult?A/N: This isn't a retelling of the Little Prince. It's simply the story of two people who read and loved the Little Prince and allowed themselves to be influenced by it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was randomly reflecting on the Little Prince, so I decided to buy the ebook and watch the movie. Somehow, this story came out. I don't know how good it is and I really should be focusing on my other works. But hey. This came out.

Tom walked into the tiny shop, looking for potion ingredients. A young man sat at the counter with a copy of The Little Prince. In French. Tom allowed himself a tiny smile and picked up what he needed. When he was done, he walked up to the till and said these words, precisely:

  
“If you please, draw me a sheep.”

  
Obviously pleased, the young man bent over a piece of paper, torn out of a star-engraved notebook, and drew a box with three holes in the side.

  
“Perfect,” said Tom as he received it. “Will the sheep require much grass? I find myself limited in my ability to reach grazing lands.”

  
“A handful, likely,” answered the young man. “It’s a rather tiny sheep. Perhaps you can slowly strip the Malfoys’ lawn.”

  
“Pleasant idea,” agreed Tom with an equally pleasant smile. He waited for the young man to catalogue the ingredients and come up with the total amount due.

  
“Twenty galleons and two sickles,” said the young man after what seemed to be an eternity. Tom raised a brow and took another good look at his pile.

  
“I’m fairly certain there’s a mistake,” said Tom, a frown on his brow. “These should be worth a bit more than twenty galleons and two sickles.”

  
“How very honest,” admired the young man. “But quite unnecessary, I assure you. I know what they are worth. And I know what pleasant conversation is worth.”

  
“You would lower your price for good conversation?” asked Tom, incredulously.

  
“Have you any idea how rare it is in these parts?” replied the young man. The little shop was in Knockturn Alley and Tom, as well, worked in Knockturn Alley. It seemed as if people took leave of any and all common decency when entering the Alley.

  
“I have an inkling,” answered Tom, “but it remains that this is unsound business practice.”

  
“Good thing I’ve no one but myself to answer to, then,” replied the young man. How cheeky.

  
“Have we met before?” asked Tom.

  
“I have met neither you nor the twenty men who, prior, asked,” the young man answered. Tom blushed at the words’ connotation.

  
“That’s not what I meant,” denied Tom. And so very quickly did he, that it seemed as if he were lying. He reddened further as the young man raised a brow in amused disbelief. Mayhap it would be kind to the reader to add that the young man was a rather attractive lad. The same fact was, however, terribly unkind to Tom who spluttered indignantly.

  
“I only meant that you seemed familiar, somehow,” insisted Tom.

  
“Possibly,” agreed the young man, thoughtfully. “How old are you?”

  
“I am _not_ attempting to woo you.”

  
“And I am no longer implying that you are,” assured the young man. “I simply wonder if we were schoolboys together.”

  
“Oh,” said Tom. “Twenty-one. I am twenty and one years old.”

  
“Then, you graduated in 1945?” asked the young man.

  
“Yes,” confirmed Tom.

  
“I was in the year below,” said the young man. “You may have seen me in passing.”

  
“But you’re not quite the fleeting sort, are you?” asked Tom, gesturing towards the young man’s face.

  
“I have a talent for invisibility,” smiled the young man. Then, in a bid to dismiss Tom, he turned his attention back to his book. The Little Prince stared at Tom, vacantly. Understandable, truly. Tom was no handsome sheep in a cardboard box, nor was he a beautiful rose on an asteroid. No, reality was much duller than that for, you see, Tom was an adult. And adults, you must understand, had no use for boas, bisected or otherwise. Therefore, the Little Prince, who talked to foxes and watched forty-four sunsets, had no use for Tom.

  
It was not always so, mind. Tom used to be a child like all others. And, back then, he very much had use for boas, whole and bisected. Although, between us, he rather preferred them whole. As a child, Tom had been glowingly fascinated when he had found out he could speak to the tiny snakes that slithered in the forests near the orphanage.

  
Oh, how happy he had been. Finally, he had friends! Tom had spent the infinity between his misfortunate birth and his sixth birthday all alone. The other orphans thought him strange. The matrons believed him possessed. And the adults… Well, the adults were very adult about the whole affair. They ignored him so supremely, Tom had begun to doubt his very existence. So, when the snakes had spoken to him, Tom had thought ‘Oh. I’m a real boy!’ The snakes had confirmed as much.

  
“I can touch you,” had said a tiny green one, “therefore, you must be real.” Touch makes one real, Tom had learnt.

  
“I can smell you,” had said a tiny grey one, “therefore, you must be real.” Smell makes one real, Tom had learnt.

  
“I can hear you,” had said a tiny brown one, “therefore, you must be real.” Hearing makes one real, Tom had learnt.

  
“But why then, do the adults not speak to me?” had he asked. The snakes touched him, smelled him, heard him. Were the adults unable to do the same, perhaps? He asked as much.

  
“Adults,” had said an old one, “are cruel to little ones who are not their own.”

  
“Then, if I find my own adults, they will speak to me?”

  
“Your adults are gone, child,” had said the old one. “That is why you live with all the other little ones.”

  
“I know _that!”_ had snarled Tom. “My mummy died when I was born and my daddy… I don’t know what happened to my daddy. But, maybe I can get new adults. Some of the children get new adults. It happens all the time.” And so, Tom had waited.

  
And waited.

  
And waited some more.

  
But the only adult who came for him had been an odd man in a purple suit and a funny scarf. He hadn’t come to take Tom for himself. Only to tell him that he was to attend wizarding school.

  
Perhaps, if the man had come a few years earlier, if he had come when Tom was first learning to speak to snakes, he might have found the little boy lonely but amazed by the reality of magic. Unfortunately, he came too late and Tom was no longer a boy full of wonder and loneliness. After years and years of being ignored and feared, Tom had, rather regretfully, become a very boring, very dull, tiny adult who saw nothing special about the magical world.

  
Tom had been adult ever since.

  
But that day, in the little shop in Knockturn Alley, something changed. Tom went home and he was Excited. There was no real reason. The young man had barely spoken to him and, while he was certainly beautiful, he was nothing truly special. Perhaps it was the Little Prince. Tom had felt the stirring of something akin to excitement when he had first read it. Perhaps it was the Little Prince. After all, how many wizards could there be who had also read it.

  
So, Tom sat up that night attempting to work off the Excitement. It exhorted him to jump around his tiny flat, as if his feet were fitted with springs. It urged him to change the grey walls to purples and blues and greens and reds and yellows. It, finally, charged him to sit and create a Tiny Boy out of a little bit of wood which he had transfigured from a little bit of paper.

  
The Tiny Boy stood as tall as Tom's pinky and as thick as his thumb. He had a kind smile and Tom’s blue eyes and Tom’s black hair. And his clothes! Oh, his clothes! A robe as blue as the night sky, filled with all the stars, as if Tom had plucked them from the firmament himself. And was that B612 that Tom spied in the corner of a sleeve? The Tiny Boy held a handsome wand in his hand and, from it, shot tiny sparks of magic. Truly, the Tiny Boy was marvelous.

  
Tom smiled at the Tiny Boy. And not one of those false smiles that reached the lips but not the eyes that all adults had perfected. No, this smile was barely a twitch of the lips. But, also, it was a twinkle of the eyes.

  
The next day, Tom woke up, went to work and, on his break, went to the little apothecary. The young man was sat at the counter again, nose still buried in the Little Prince. He had made considerable progress since Tom had last seen him and was almost done with the book. Tom had nothing to buy, so he went straight to the young man. He placed the Tiny Boy upon the counter and the young man stared at it in curiosity. Finally, the young man stuck the Tiny Boy into his pocket and tore another piece of paper from his star-engraved notebook. He drew, on the blank page, a tuft of grass and handed it to Tom.

  
“For your tiny sheep,” said the young man. “How fares it?”

  
“It’s taken a taste to the baobab saplings as I had hoped,” answered Tom.

  
“Good,” said the young man. “You must invite me to visit with it some time.” In that moment, Tom’s heart skipped a beat, danced a jig, and knocked against his spine. His stomach did a flip, attempted to descend beyond his bowels, and exploded in butterflies.

  
“Perhaps tonight, after you close shop,” mumbled Tom.

  
“At half past seven, then,” said the young man. He returned to his book, dismissing Tom once more.

  
“At half past seven,” repeated Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds, this will be a short series.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went way more fluff than I intended. I usually write crack or angst. I don't know how this happened.

At half past seven, Tom walked up to the Apothecary. The young man was not there. Tom tried the door but it was locked. How queer. He peered through the window and saw that the lights were off and the young man was not at the counter. His book sat next to the till but the young man was nowhere in sight. Tom’s stomach dropped into the icy lake that seemed to always pool into the bottom of his abdomen at times like these.

  
“Are you quite done fogging up my windows?” asked a voice. Tom jumped, bumped his nose hard into the window and turned around, holding the injured organ as if it were a vulgar potato upon his face. If you ask me, potatoes are humiliated for no proper reason. But this is not my story and Tom, I regret to confide, abides by society’s cruelty towards potatoes. Therefore, Tom held his nose with about as much finesse as one handles a dirt-covered potato. The young man smiled at him and pulled Tom's hand away from his nose. He raised a holly wand, which he tapped against Tom’s nose. Instantly, the pain vanished, as if it had never been there to begin with.

  
“Thank you,” said Tom, stomach ascending back to its assigned position.

  
“Welcome,” said the young man. “It occurs to me that we have skimped on introductions.”

  
“Ah. Yes,” agreed Tom. “My name is Tom Riddle.”

  
“I’m aware,” said the young man, amused.

  
“How?” asked Tom.

 

“I can’t imagine that anyone who went to Hogwarts while you attended doesn’t know you,” answered the young man. “If they truly don’t, then they must have been living under some mighty rock.”

  
“Ah. Right,” said Tom. He sighed and the young man raised an eyebrow. “How the mighty have fallen, right?”

  
“Fallen?” inquired the young man.

  
“Well, if you know me from Hogwarts, then you know what I was like,” said Tom. He gestured to himself, to his old robes and worn shoes. “Disappointing, isn’t it?”

  
“I can’t imagine it is,” replied the young man. “I do believe appearances are misleading. You seem like the sort who is secretly planning world domination and a string of murders in the name of immortality.” Tom froze at the words. The young man walked another few paces before he noticed that Tom was not by his side.

  
“Is it something I said?” asked the young man.

  
“Are you a seer or a spy?” Tom bit out.

  
“Neither,” said the young man. “Simply, I come from your future.” And Tom questioned it not. Tom, you must know, was the intelligent sort who believed that, if one can change a goat into a teacup, one can most certainly travel through time.

  
“Your name?” asked Tom, as they reached his tiny flat.

  
“Need you know?”

  
“I must,” said Tom. “So I don’t, inadvertently, kill you.” Tom had no idea what he had said that was so incredibly funny but the young man burst into the most attractive peal of laughter Tom had ever heard.

  
“You attempted,” said the young man when he was done laughing. “But you failed so spectacularly, it was recorded in History books.”

  
“You must be powerful, indeed,” muttered Tom. And so petulant was he that the young man burst into even more laughter.

  
“My mother certainly was,” said the young man. “It was she who defeated you by offering, as a sacrifice, her life to the gods.”

  
“Tell me her name, then,” demanded Tom, “so I may avoid humiliation.”

  
“In time,” promised the young man. “May we go in? Your neighbour has been giving us the evil eye for a moment now.” And, indeed, Mrs. Robinson was in her doorway, dressed in a silk gown, glowering at them. Tom bowed with a flourish, irreverent as he had never before been, and pushed his door open. On the kitchen wall, a King sat upon a throne set on a round, grey rock. His royal garb took up any space the throne did not. A flock of birds with strings on their talons flew around the whole flat.

  
“Where did you put the sheep?” asked the young man.

  
“What is your name?” asked Tom.

  
“Is it in your kitchen?” asked the young man, ignoring Tom completely. “Surely not. You’ll traumatise it.”

  
“I can’t afford meat often enough for the sheep to be traumatised,” said Tom, bitterly. “I didn’t put it in the kitchen, anyhow. It’s in the living. That’s where the baobab saplings sprout the most.” And indeed, there was the sheep in the corner of the living room, grazing on baobab saplings. Its crate was a bit to the side, abandoned like mere litter on the rock of B612.

  
“What about the Rose?” asked the young man. “Where is she?”

  
“Not here yet,” said Tom. “I’ve yet to find my Rose.”

  
“Are you looking?” asked the young man.

  
“I am,” said Tom, “and I may have found the seed. But, as you well know, it is difficult to tell baobab and rose saplings apart.”

  
“Then, perhaps you should put a leash on the sheep,” said the young man. “It won’t do to have it eat your Rose before you can even meet her. Else, however will you leave on adventures.”

  
“Would you want me to leave, if you were my Rose?” asked Tom.

  
“I should think I’d harass you till you did,” said the young man. “Would you like me to draw you a rope? For your sheep, I mean.”

  
“Tying it would be cruel,” said Tom. “I’m not cruel.”

  
“To animals,” corrected the young man. “You don’t much care for humans.”

  
“True,” Tom agreed. “Now, what is your name so I may avoid killing your mother.”

  
“Do it, anyways,” said the young man.

  
“Do what anyways?” asked Tom.

  
“Kill her,” said the young man. “In spite of my name, you must kill her anyways.”

  
“Why?” asked Tom.

  
“Because I would not be me if you didn’t,” said the young man, gravely.

  
“Surely, if I can touch you,” said Tom, “it would be you. Touch makes one real.”

  
The young man said nothing.

  
“Surely, if I can smell you,” insisted Tom, “it would be you. Smell makes one real.”

  
Still, the young man said nothing.

  
“Surely, if I can hear you,” said Tom, finally, “it would be you. Hearing makes one real.”

  
“I would be real,” conceded the young man, “but I would not be me.” And so, Tom pondered on the difficulty of what the young man was suggesting.

  
“You’re right,” admitted Tom, at length and quite reluctantly. “You would _be._ But you would not be you. I shall kill your mother. What is your name?”

  
“Harry,” said the young man who was now Harry.

  
“Harry,” repeated Tom. “King of England?”

  
“No,” said the young man who was now to be called Harry. But Tom, as all Englishmen, had an unfortunate difficulty with adjusting to change. After all, is it not they who, after all these years, still refuse to return stolen artifacts? “No, Rose of B612, it would seem.”

  
“Rose of B612,” repeated Tom, heart flapping in his chest as a trapped butterfly should. “I shall protect you, from the sheep and the baobab.”

  
“My Prince,” grinned Harry, who was formerly the young man. He left afterwards, partaking in Tom’s meager supper which was rather a feast compared to what Tom usually allowed himself. It had shamed Tom greatly. But Harry, who was formerly the young man and was now Rose of B612, had said nothing. Tom had complained for the lack of vanity and Harry, Rose of B612, had assured him that he had seen nothing yet.

  
Later that night, Tom sat up in bed and transfigured a little bit of paper into a little bit of wood. From the wood, he carved a Tiny Rose and she had leaves as green as Harry’s eyes and petals as pink as Harry’s lips. She glanced at him, her tiny visage curled in a mysterious smile and her tiny eyes glittering with hidden mischief. She was vain, the Tiny Rose. Tom whispered to her: “Oh, how beautiful you are! A thousand million men would give one eye just to glimpse at your beauty with the other.” She preened and demanded that he praise her more, that he brush her petals ever so gently. Tom complied and, when finally she allowed him sleep, he placed her under a tiny glass bell.

  
The next morning, Tom woke up, went to work and, on his break, went to the little apothecary. Harry sat at the counter, propped on his elbows next to the till. As Tom approached, it turned out that the book set before Harry was The Little Prince which Harry had begun to read again. Harry, who, you remember, was now the Rose of B612, looked up and smiled a not-grown-up smile. It was pretty. It was for Tom and, greedily, he pocketed it and hid it from the World.

  
In return, Tom placed the Tiny Rose upon the counter. She was still under her tiny glass bell. Harry, who was also Rose of B612, took the bell off and stared at her very gravely. The Tiny Rose stared back just as gravely. From within a pocket, Harry produced the Tiny Boy. The Tiny Boy, upon setting his eyes on the Tiny Rose, smiled so brightly that the stars shining on his magnificent robes paled in comparison. Flattered, the Tiny Rose extended a tiny leaf which the Tiny Boy took so very gently. Satisfied, Harry, Rose of B612, stuck both the Tiny Rose under its tiny glass bell and the Tiny Boy into his pocket.

  
“Tea?” asked Harry.

  
“And biscuits, if you please,” said Tom. Tom’s break passed pleasantly and ended with the promise of meeting again at half past seven. At half past seven, Harry, who was formerly the young man, startled Tom who, again, had been peering through the shop’s windows. He tapped Tom’s nose with the tip of his Holly wand and led him back to Tom’s flat. There, they had another meager supper. But this time, Harry did not leave immediately. He picked a book off Tom’s shelf, _A Thousand Curses and Counter-Curses_ , and curled up against Tom’s side on his ratty little sofa. They read, pinkies curled together, in silence till it was time for Harry to go.

  
When it was time for Harry, Rose of B612 to go, Tom walked him to the door and, as Harry turned to leave, Tom wrapped a hand around his wrist and pressed a sweet kiss against his lips.

  
“Such beauty,” whispered Tom against Harry’s pink cheek. “I would give my left eye just to glimpse it with my right.”

  
“Keep them both,” said Harry, Rose of B612, “and you may have my heart.” Then he left and, like a true Englishman, he took with him that which did not belong to him. Still, he left with Tom, something equally precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should there be more to this story?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I didn't know if I'd continue this series but it's currently dancing circles in my head. So, here you go. I hope it's still good.

One morning, Tom woke with the first rays of sunlight. The sheep had migrated to his bedroom, following in the baobab saplings’ trail. Two months since Tom had repainted the tiny flat, and the baobab saplings seemed to have developed a mind of their own. They grew everywhere and the sheep was growing rather fat and slow in its desperate attempt to keep up.

  
“Darling,” called Tom. He slid out of the bed and pulled a pair of cotton sleep-trousers on.

  
“Over here,” came Harry’s voice. Tom followed the sound to the living room where he found the Rose of B612 painting a dependable little volcano onto one of the walls. “How sturdy, you look.” The little volcano preened and sent up a puff of smoke by way of thanks. The plumes curled into a heart-shaped frame around Harry’s head.

  
“Must you keep adding to my competition?” sighed Tom as he curled his arms around his love. Smiling one of his only-for-Tom smiles, Harry turned around and wrapped his arms and legs around Tom.

  
“It’s pressure,” said Harry. “I’ll have you marry me by next spring or my name isn’t Harry!” Tom squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, aggravated.

  
“You know I’d marry you in a heartbeat if I could afford it,” said Tom. Yes, yes, I know. Such a grown-up, dull, and boring reason to not marry his Rose. You must be wondering if Tom has gone back to being a boring adult. I assure you that is not the case. He still owned a case-full of paints of all colours. He still jumped around the house as if his feet were fitted with springs. And he still carved Tiny Things from little bits of wood he had transfigured from little bits of paper.

  
But Tom, you must understand, grew up very poor and had been tormented for it. Harry, who was also the Rose of B612, deserved much better than a husband so poor, he could barely afford the rent on their tiny flat. Harry, who was the Rose of B612, deserved beautiful silks and lush velvets and airy muslins to dress his soft skin. Tom wished to put him in a grand mansion with grand grounds, and have him be attended to by an army of house-elves.

  
“Whatever would I do with your money?” asked Harry, who was Tom’s first and only true love.

  
“You might stop working and grow fat and lazy and prettier for it,” said Tom.

  
“I want to be neither fat nor lazy and I will not be pretty forever,” said Harry. He was bright and soft and kind and sugar and spice and all things sweet. And he was Tom’s. He deserved the World at his feet and Tom said as much.

 

“Whatever would I do with the Kneeling World?” asked Harry, who was Tom’s truest love and his very heart.

 

“You shall command It and It shall obey,” said Tom.

  
“Command It to do what?” asked Harry. “Ho, change into seabirds, for I please it so.”

  
“You need but command and expect obedience,” said Tom.

  
“And who shall I blame when they fail to deliver, my love?” asked Harry, who also loved Tom and set the latter’s heart afire with such Passion that Tom was nearly overwhelmed.

  
“They shall not fail,” vowed Tom. “No one shall ever fail you.”

  
“Yet you must, one day, fail me,” declared Harry, who was Tom’s greatest Passion yet also his greatest Sorrow.

  
“I would not fail you that day, for killing your mother is what you require of me,” stated Tom.

  
“Quite so,” agreed Harry. “But I’ve no need for a Kneeling World. I’ve no need for wealth and silks and ermine and seabirds. I’ve need of you."

  
“And I’ve need of you, as well,” admitted Tom, pressing an enamoured smile against Harry’s pink cheek.

  
“Therefore,” decreed Harry, absolute Monarch of Tom’s heart, “marry me, anyway. I want you, penniless and peasant.”

  
And so, on a beautiful spring day, they were married, by a confounded muggle priest, under a rain of plum blossoms. Harry wore his best white robes, pink on his lips, green in his eyes, and he looked every bit the Rose of B612. Tom sewed the stars into his best black robes, a True Smile upon his lips, blue in his eyes, and he looked every bit the Rose’s Beloved Prince.

  
Afterwards, they lived happily in their tiny world, their little B612. The little flat was ever more beautiful for Harry’s constant presence. Little sheep popped up in various corners, valiant in their mission to help the Elder Sheep contain the baobab infestation. Stars twinkled on the ceiling, complimenting each other on their beauty. ‘Oh, how prettily you twinkle.’ ‘Thank you. Though, I must say, your shine is nothing to scoff at, either.’ The flat was constantly filled with the sound of quiet chatter. And not the ridiculous sort that hurts the feelings of its subjects that most adults had perfected. Rather, the sort you hear when old people, wizened and ready to embrace death, engage in conversation with each other and which only aids the participants in bringing up each other.

  
Tom sat at a desk with a little bit of wood he had transfigured from a little bit of paper and he carved it into a Tiny King, dressed in a most handsome royal garb. The Tiny King was sat upon a tiny throne which was rather unremarkable next to his royal garb. Nevertheless, it served its purpose and made the Tiny King, ever so slightly, more regal than he already looked. The Tiny King gazed upon Tom kindly. He commanded that Tom hold him up so he could gaze upon his Kingdom. Tom, knowing that the Tiny King was an absolute Monarch and, thus, expected no less than complete obedience, complied. The Tiny King was pleased with his Kingdom and congratulated Tom on its establishment. Tom accepted the compliment.

  
The next day, Tom woke up and so did Harry. Tom went to work and so did Harry. But Tom no longer needed a break to see his Rose for, it may please you to learn, Tom quit his job at the other horrid place and came to work with Harry in the apothecary.

  
The little shop flourished, a little spot of light and love in an otherwise terrible Alley. The unsavoury clientele of Knockturn Alley filled the little space and they seemed to remember all the common decency they had forgotten at the Alley’s entrance. The Hags complimented Mr. And Mr. Riddle on their wedding. The underpaid dark wizards and witches held their battered hats between their hands and said ‘If you please,…’ The werewolves and the vampires stood, side by side, politely chatting as they awaited their turn to be served.

  
In a moment of respite, which had grown rare as Tom and Harry grew more and more popular, Tom found his Rose checking inventory and revealed the Tiny King. Harry, who was now also the Tiny King’s subject, gave a respectful curtsey. The Tiny King smiled benevolently at the sign of deference. From a pocket, Harry presented the Tiny Boy and his Tiny Rose. The Tiny Boy and the Tiny Rose curtsied as well and the Tiny King was pleased. The Tiny Boy and the Tiny Rose vowed to protect their new King. The Tiny Rose bared its four tiny thorns in demonstration and the Tiny Boy shot a shower of sparks from his tiny wand to prove himself as well. The Tiny King was well pleased. He declared the Tiny Boy Minister of Justice and the Tiny Rose was to be Minister of Defence. Tom, he declared Minister of Arts and Harry was decreed to be Minister of the Stars. They all accepted their new positions with grace and promises to serve faithfully. Harry stuck the Tiny Boy, the Tiny Rose, and the Tiny King into his pocket. He pressed a smile against Tom’s lips.

  
At half past seven, Tom and Harry left the shop together. Tom still managed to hurt his nose on the glass door because he was clumsy that way. With a chuckle, Harry tapped his husband’s nose with his Holly wand and the pain was gone. And for a time, they were happy.

  
Alas, it was not to last.

  
One day, Tom woke with the first rays of sunlight. The Elder Sheep glanced at him and returned to grazing on the baobab saplings. The infestation was under control as the sheep had organised into a military unit. The Elder Sheep acted as incumbent General of the Woolly Army.

  
“Darling,” called Tom. He slipped a cotton robe on and slid out of their marriage bed.

  
There was no answer. Perhaps the Rose of B612 was entranced by his work. Tom opened their bedroom door and peered out. The kitchen was cold and empty. The living, at first glance, seemed empty too. Perhaps the Rose of B612 had stepped out because they had run out of eggs. He went to the ice box to check. The eggs sat, innocuous, in their usual spot. Tom went to the living, scratching his head in contemplation. His foot ran into something.

  
There he was on the cold floor, Harry, who was also the Rose of B612 and the love of Tom’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this isn't the end. Do leave a comment. It only encourages me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sadder one but it needed to happen.

_Adieu, dit le renard. Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux._

_-Le renard, Le Petit Prince, Antoine de St-Exupéry_

  
Tom was sat in the Emergency Ward’s waiting area. People flitted about, minding their own business and definitely not minding Tom’s. Such was the way of the grieving. Tom had left the tiny flat in a hurry and, as such, was dressed only in a flimsy cotton robe and equally flimsy cotton sleep-trousers. He was barefoot and had an eyeful of tears. His heart and stomach were attempting to outdo each other in their bid to find the lowest spot in his abdomen. His brain had decided on a most inopportune moment to go on strike for being overworked and underpaid.

  
Tom’s legs were dancing an artful jig when the healer finally came out to see him. It was Abraxas Malfoy, Tom’s schoolmate and second-in-command. Tom sighed, thinking this day could simply not get any more terrible.

  
“What are you doing with the mudblood?” asked Abraxas, furiously red of anger.

  
“Is he? I did not know,” said Tom.

  
“He is! We were schoolboys together!” claimed Abraxas. “And what an incorrigible annoyance he was. How do you not remember?”

  
“He says he has a talent for invisibility,” stated Tom.

  
“He was not invisible,” said Abraxas, “nor did he have a talent for it. You simply blinded yourself to him, thinking him unimportant.”

  
“Did I?” asked Tom. “That seems unconscionably stupid, now.”

  
“Stupid?” repeated Abraxas. “Stupid? We waited five years for you, Tom. _Five_ years. When you said you needed Time and Space to prepare for the War, we gave you Time and Space. And what do we get for our troubles? I find you _gallivanting_ with a mudblood!”

  
“Much worse, I’m afraid,” said Tom. “I married him.” Abraxas turned several shades paler than he already was and I assure you, a mighty feat it was indeed.

  
“Married,” repeated he, flabbergasted and obfuscated and bamboozled and boggled.

  
“Quite so,” agreed Tom. “And even doubly worse: I love him.” An even greater feat it was that Abraxas did not faint or die on the spot.

  
“In love,” mumbled Abraxas.

  
“That matters little,” said Tom. “How is he?”

  
“Matters little? He’s a mudblood!” screamed Abraxas. “Did you forget?”

  
“I did not,” said Tom, colder than a sunny day on Ellesmere’s northern tip. “But, mayhap you forgot your oath. The one you took to heal everyone regardless of how you feel.”

  
“I did not forget,” said Abraxas, coloured as red as a child’s carnival balloon.

  
“Mayhap, then, you forgot that I could easily destroy you and leave nothing behind,” said Tom.

  
“I did not forget,” said Abraxas, coloured as white as freshly fallen snow.

  
“How is he?” repeated Tom.

  
“If you love him, you should sit,” said Abraxas.

  
“Is it so bad?” asked Tom, even as he took a seat.

  
“The Core Eater Syndrome,” whispered Abraxas. “A magical being may not live without their magical core. This disease destroys the core and there is nothing we can do. Any magic we attempt on him will only accelerate his death.”

Tom swallowed, stared at the white walls, allowed a choked sob, broke into uncontrollable despair. Abraxas wound an arm around his shoulders, offering comfort and, for the first time in his entire life, Tom allowed it. He laid his head against Abraxas’ chest and sobbed painfully.

  
“Control yourself,” said Abraxas, at length. “He will need you.” He offered a handkerchief which smelled of roses and broke Tom’s heart even further. When Tom was clean, they rose as one, Master and Knight, and Abraxas led them to Harry. He slept on the white bed, pink on the lips and white on the cheeks.

  
“Darling,” called Tom. His eyes fluttered open.

  
“Over here,” came Harry’s voice, hoarse and pained from the illness.

  
“The matrons have been staring at you,” accused Tom. “Must you keep adding to my competition?”

  
“It’s pressure,” rasped Harry. “I’ll have you love me till the end of times or my name isn’t Harry!” Tom blew an aggravated sigh against Harry’s palm.

  
“I’ve need of you,” sobbed Tom. “Penniless and peasant and alive. I’ve need of you.”

  
“You speak as if I were leaving,” said Harry.

  
“You are,” cried Tom. “ You are dying and so, you are leaving.”

  
“Now, there,” said Harry. “That is a most horrifying falsehood. I will go nowhere without you.”

  
“You tamed me,” said Tom. “That was wrong of you. Now, I shall see you in the roses, in our little flat, in the sunlight.”

  
“And you shall be sad for it,” said Harry. “Is that not marvelous?”

  
“It is,” wept Tom. “It is the most beautiful gift you have ever given me.”

  
“Then make me one of your gifts,” asked Harry. Tom nodded, pressed his wet eyes against Harry’s warm cheek, and left. Abraxas approached the bed and engaged the Rose of B612 in conversation. 

Tom went home and sat at his desk. He found the Tiny Boy, the Tiny Rose, and the Tiny King in one of Harry’s robe pockets. They sat silently, sadly, as Tom transfigured a little bit of paper into a little bit of wood which he carved into a handsome Tiny Fox. The Tiny Fox had beautiful ginger fur that seemed to shine with hidden sunlight. Its tail was soft and bushy. When Tom sobbed, the Tiny Fox placed a tiny paw upon his finger and wrapped its tail around his pinky.

  
“It is hardly the end,” said the Tiny Fox.

  
The next morning, Tom woke alone. He did not go to work and he did not have a break. He went, instead, to St-Mungo’s and found Harry still in bed and chatting with Abraxas whose eyes were filled with kindness.

  
“More competition?” asked Tom as he settled in the bedside chair. Abraxas blushed and denied it so fast that it seemed as if he were lying. Tom and Harry shared a laugh over his flustering. He left them, stating that he had other patients to tend to.

  
Eventually, Tom revealed the Tiny Fox. The Tiny Fox jumped from his hand and trotted up the side of the bed till he reached Harry’s hand. There, he curled in the hollow of Harry’s palm. Harry smiled at it, a small and pained smile but a true smile, nonetheless. From a pocket, Tom produced the Tiny Boy, the Tiny Rose, and the Tiny King. From his throne, the Tiny King declared the Tiny Fox Minister of the Heart. The Tiny Boy leapt from Tom’s hand into Harry’s and began to play with the Tiny Fox who declared himself Tamed by the Tiny Boy. The Tiny Rose unfurled her petals and made herself as pretty as she could be and declared that she should very much like to Tame the Tiny Fox, as well. The Tiny Fox agreed as long as he was also allowed to Tame the Tiny Rose. Kindly, she agreed as it was only fair.

  
Finally, from another pocket, Tom produced a Tiny Snake. It was golden as fine sand and scarcely thicker than a hair. The Tiny Boy stared at the Tiny Snake in puzzlement. The Tiny snake paid him no mind. It wrapped around the Tiny Rose in an affectionate embrace. The Tiny Rose welcomed it as if it were an Old Friend. In response, the Tiny Fox nuzzled at the Tiny Boy’s hand. The Tiny King watched all this, weary in his heart, and declared the Tiny Snake Minister of Kindness.

  
“Take me home,” said Harry. “I don’t want to die here.”

  
And so, Tom took Harry, who was the Rose of B612 and Tom’s greatest treasure, back to their tiny flat. He invited his court, the Knights of Walpurgis, so they may gaze upon their dying Queen. Many were unkind in the beginning, as Abraxas had been. But Abraxas fumed and stomped and threatened and plead and cried until he washed all the unkindness from their hearts. Tom had never been prouder of the young man.

  
“Abraxas, may I see you?” asked Harry.

  
“You may,” said Abraxas as he knelt by Harry’s feet. He was sat between Tom’s legs, propped up by his husband’s chest.

  
“Is my husband your absolute King?” asked Harry.

  
“He is,” said Abraxas.

  
“And you shall change into a seabird if he commands?” asked Harry. 

  
“He need only ask and he shall receive,” said Abraxas.

  
“And am I, then, your absolute Queen?” asked Harry.

  
“You are,” said Abraxas.

  
“And you shall change into a seabird if I command?” asked Harry.

  
“You need only ask and you shall receive,” said Abraxas.

  
“Then I shall give you one command and only one,” said Harry. “You must understand, I am not leaving. I will always be here. But I will no longer be able to paint sheep and I will no longer be able to make sure he eats, drinks water, and lives.”

  
“Harry,” sobbed Tom.

  
“I shall give you one command, Abraxas, and only one,” said Harry. “It is to be obeyed by you and your children after you and their children after them.”

  
“You need only ask and you shall receive,” repeated Abraxas.

  
“I am not leaving,” said Harry. “You must remember that. But I need to give you one command and only one: Be there for Tom. Always and forever.”

  
“You asked,” said Abraxas, “therefore, you shall receive. It is an oath.”

  
“Good,” said Harry.

  
Harry passed away with the sunset and left tears for Tom who could only be grateful. Abraxas received, from Tom, a Tiny Aviator who climbed into his tiny plane and flew off in exploration of Malfoy Manor. The Tiny Aviator came back to report his findings every few days. Tom made him a Tiny Geographer. Abraxas came to the little apothecary to report their cartography every day.

  
One morning, Tom woke up with the first rays of sunlight, packed a bag, and wrote a letter to Abraxas. It said:

  
_Dear Abraxas,_   
_I must leave on adventures. I request that you take care of my shop in the meantime. I will return as soon as possible. Take care of yourself._

_Tom Riddle, who is also Lord Voldemort._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end. You must remember who Harry is. This is merely the end of one arc. 
> 
> The French translates somewhat to:
> 
> Goodbye, said the Fox. This is my secret. It is very simple: we only see well with the heart. That which matters is invisible to the eye. 
> 
> (This isn't an exact translation. Nor is it the official one.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot less Little Prince on this than any other chapter, be warned.

It was only after several years that Tom finally came back to England. When he came, he brought with him a beautiful snake named Nagini. Nagini remained on his shoulder as if she were some big scarf of scales and Tom understood her words when she spoke them.

  
On a lazy evening, while Tom was tending to his shop, a young man, named Severus Snape, rushed to him. He was in all his sorts. Tom blinked at him and offered tea. The young man looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

  
“I have been spying on Dumbledore,” said Mr. Snape who, Tom remembered, was his army’s best Potions Master. Abraxas had personally trained him and Tom had set him to curry favor with Professor Slughorn so that he might, someday, replace the portly old man as Hogwarts’ Potions’ teacher.

  
“I insist you drink the tea,” said Tom. “You are far too panicked.”

  
“This is most urgent, My Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Snape.

  
“It can hardly be more important than your poor nerves,” said Tom. “Now, drink the tea and have some biscuits.” Most reluctantly, Mr. Snape obeyed for it was becoming increasingly clear that Tom would not listen to word lest he drain the little teacup. He drank fast and swallowed four biscuits. Then, he sat still, awaiting Tom’s permission to speak. With a great sigh of disapproval, Tom nodded for him to do so.

  
“There is a prophecy, My Lord,” said Mr. Snape. “I heard it with my own ears. It was a Ms. Trelawney who issued it to Dumbledore.”

  
“The batty woman who skulks in the Leaky Cauldron’s attic?” asked Tom. This fact seemed to stump Mr. Snape.

  
“She skulks in the Leaky Cauldron’s attic?” asked Mr. Snape.

  
“Quite,” said Tom. “Why, just the other day, Tom, the other one, the one who runs the Leaky, walked into my shop to complain about how bad she has been for business. It seems she has been going around predicting the deaths of every single customer who would talk to her long enough. Tom, the other one, mind, was very relieved when she departed for Hogsmeade. He’s vowed to never serve her again, you know?”

  
“Well, I never…” said Mr. Snape. “I’m not quite sure the news is so important after all.”

  
“Do tell, anyways,” said Tom. “I’m certain Dumbledore, who is equally batty, believed her as if she had spewed Gospel. He puts much faith in these strange things.”

  
“I don’t believe you’re halfway wrong,” agreed Mr. Snape. “Well, here is what I heard: She was interviewing for the Divinations position and was sounding ever more like a terrible candidate, even to Dumbledore. But then, rather mysteriously, she suddenly went silent. When she spoke again, she spoke in a voice that sounded as if it had not been used since the Gods left the earth for their Heavenly abodes. She said, and let me see if I remember right, she said that the one who would vanquish the dark lord, who is you, was approaching. She said that he would have power that you knew not, which is rather ridiculous seeing as you know almost all magic.”

  
“Any indications on who this rival of mine might be?” asked Tom.

  
“Only that they would be born at the end of the seventh month to people who have thrice defied you,” said Mr. Snape.

  
“Well, let Lucius know and keep an eye out,” said Tom.

  
Six months later, Lucius came into the shop, dragging Mr. Snape with him. The latter seemed reluctant as never before. Tom fixed them both a cup of tea and Lucius, who was used to this, settled down and asked for biscuits. Mr. Snape watched them as if they were both completely out of their minds. He quickly gave up and sipped on his own tea.

  
“Two boys were born, this past month that meet the conditions,” said Lucius.

  
“Is either named Harry?” asked Tom. The two men blinked at him.

  
“Yes,” breathed Lucius, “the Potter boy. But how did you know?”

  
“Ah! So that was his name,” said Tom.

  
“Whose name?” asked Mr. Snape.

  
“My husband’s,” answered Tom.

  
“You were married?” asked Mr. Snape. Lucius gave him a look that seemed to say ‘What sort of rock have you been living under?’

  
“Of course, he was married,” said Lucius. “Our cause used to be a lot more terrible and evil until he fell in love with and married a time-travelling muggleborn.”

“A time-travelling muggleborn,” repeated Mr. Snape, obviously perplexed.

  
“Honestly,” said Lucius, most aggravated, “does no one listen to the orientation speech?”

  
“And after you put so much work into it, too,” added Tom.

  
“What will you do, my Lord?” asked Lucius.

  
“I will do as Harry requested,” answered Tom, nonchalantly.

  
“What did he ask?” asked Mr. Snape.

  
“To kill his mother,” said Tom. “And, I suppose, his father, too.”

  
“You can’t!” shouted Mr. Snape, springing to his feet.

  
“I can and I must,” said Tom. “It is as Harry commands.”

  
“But why?” asked Mr. Snape. “Why would he ask you to kill his parents?”

  
“Because, Mr. Snape,” sighed Tom, “if I do not, Harry will _be_ but he will not be him.”

  
“And for that, you must kill my best friend?” asked Mr. Snape, tears in his eyes.

  
“Quite,” said Tom. “If you find it kinder, you may share in her fate.”

  
Mr. Snape turned on his heel and huffed out of the shop. Lucius and Tom watched him go, drinking their tea, calmly.

  
“Likely, he will go to Dumbledore,” said Lucius.

  
“That, dear friend,” said Tom, “is what the secrecy oath I make you all take is for.”

  
“Smart,” said Lucius.

  
“One of Harry’s brighter ideas, I must say,” agreed Tom. “I might have to pretend to be dead for a few years.”

  
“Would you like a safe house arranged?” asked Lucius.

  
“Perhaps,” said Tom. “I’ll have to tell you the location after Dumbledore has decided on who gets to raise Harry.”

  
“Black, possibly,” said Lucius. “He is the child’s godfather.”

  
“Hmm. We shall see, I suppose,” said Tom.

  
A little over a year later, Tom was done preparing his troops for when he would be gone. A rat of a man gave him the secret to Harry’s home in exchange for protection. Reluctantly, Tom granted it. On Halloween night, he knocked politely on the Potters’ door. James Potter fought him valiantly and died just as valiantly.

  
“Not Harry,” begged Lily. “Please, not my Harry.”

  
“Whoever said I would kill him?” asked Tom, who was also Voldemort. He sat, cross-legged, on the floor across from where she was kneeling. Puzzled, she stopped begging and crying.

  
“Then, what are you doing?” asked Lily.

  
So, Tom, who was also Voldemort retrieved a tiny pensieve from his pocket. He enlarged it and poured his memories of the Rose of B612 into it and invited Lily to look into it. She looked at him, wary. Eventually, she gave in to curiosity and looked into the pensieve. When she came back, she heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes at his grin.

  
“If you didn’t make him half as happy,” said Lily. She didn’t finish. Instead, she got up and went to the crib, kissed Harry sweetly on the forehead.

  
“Ready?” asked Tom.

  
“You’d best take good care of him, or I’ll come back and haunt you to death,” threatened Lily. “And wipe that shit-eating grin off your face!”

  
“Say hello to father-in-law for me,” said Tom. “And tell him I said ‘sorry’.” When it was done, Tom approached the crib. Harry gave him a gummy smile. Tom answered with his own enamored one. 

“In seventeen years,” promised Tom. Then he dropped singed robes on the floor, blew a hole in the roof, and left.

  
Sixteen years later, Harry James Potter, who had yet to become the Rose of B612 but was well on his way to it, opened, away from the Dursleys’ prying eyes, a mysterious birthday gift wrapped in gift-paper that had stars travelling across its surface. A Tiny Boy danced upon it while a Tiny Rose swayed gently with him. Harry removed the gift-paper very carefully. He wished to keep the Tiny Boy and his Tiny Rose, you see. Under the gift wrap was a pretty book with stars and a boy who stared at them.

  
_The Little Prince._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm conflicted. This seems like a good place to end it. But at the same time, I also have vague plans about Tom wooing Harry and marrying him again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt there will be more updates for a few days. Life stands in the way. Allow this to tide you over for a moment.

Mr. Riddle, who lived in Number 5, was a terribly handsome man. Harry had noticed as much when he was younger but, now that he was sixteen and discovering all things sensual, he became excessively aware of the older man’s beauty. To worsen matters, Mr. Riddle liked to smile at him and wave whenever Harry worked on Aunt Petunia’s flower beds. Sometimes, if the Dursleys were not home, he would kneel in the dirt with Harry and silently help him with the begonias.

  
Mr. Riddle, himself, did not grow begonias or any other sensible flower for that matter. His front yard, unlike the other manicured lawns of Privet Drive, was so overrun by roses of all colours that walking up to his door was nothing short of a herculean task. Even better, as if to spite the residents of Privet Drive, Mr. Riddle had, the very summer he arrived, spent hours painstakingly painting his whole house over with navy paint that he covered in silvery and golden stars.

  
Harry had spent his younger years wishing that Mr. Riddle were the one to be tasked with baby-sitting him. He burned with curiosity at the idea of what may be hidden inside that house. Unfortunately, Mr. Riddle was the very opposite of everything the Dursleys strove to be. He was handsome and well-mannered, of course. And very kind and helpful, too.

  
But Mr. Riddle had strange ideas about what constituted social norms and he was such an eccentric. His house was always filled with strange sounds and Harry could swear that he had once heard a sheep bleat in there. He dressed in button-ups and fitted slacks that he often embroidered with flowers and stars and sheep and foxes and snakes and he did so, sat upon the sidewalk where everyone could see him work. Uncle Vernon had many unkind words to say about that and, even though Mr. Riddle was merely a neighbour, Harry felt bad for him every time he heard those terrible things. The fact that he remained unmarried for almost sixteen years did not help Mr. Riddle’s case at all.

  
For these reasons and more, Mr. Riddle never babysat Harry. It was Mrs. Figg, over in Wisteria Walk, who watched him instead. She was not terrible to be around. Certainly an improvement over the Dursleys. But she had cats, mean little things that disliked Harry and smelled bad. And, oh, but Harry wished he was exploring Mr. Riddle’s house instead.

  
“There you are,” said a voice, one day, as Harry lay on his back in the park’s abandoned sandpit. It was half past five and all the children were back home, getting ready for dinner. Uncle Vernon’s abominable sister, Aunt Marge was visiting with the Dursleys and Harry had been banned from Number 4. He had been hoping to quietly spend his sixteenth birthday, all alone again despite the fact that he had made friends at Hogwarts, so you can imagine that he wasn’t terribly pleased to be disturbed. He looked up, ready to express his displeasure, but stopped short.

  
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” said Mr. Riddle. “What are you doing in the sand on your birthday? And all alone too.”

  
“How did you know?” asked Harry.

  
“I saw the owls carry wrapped packages,” said Mr. Riddle. “It isn’t Christmas so I can’t imagine there’s any other reason for them.”

  
“You say the owls,” repeated Harry.

  
“No worries. I’m not muggle,” assured Mr. Riddle, who was, apparently, magical too. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

  
“Well, that certainly explains a great many things,” said Harry, who was now set on a path to become the Rose of B612.

  
“Was it the bleating sheep?” asked Mr. Riddle.

  
“That too, but more,” said Harry.

  
“Was it the chattering stars?” asked Mr. Riddle.

  
“That too, but more,” repeated Harry.

  
“Was it my ever-youthful face?” asked Mr. Riddle.

  
“Precisely,” said Harry. Mr. Riddle grinned brightly.

  
“Is it to your tastes?” asked he.

  
“Precisely,” repeated Harry. Mr. Riddle grinned even more brightly. Harry’s heart played hopscotch, his stomach danced the _Valse des Fleurs,_ and his brain exploded in fireworks. His cheeks caught fire, his hands grew a lake, and his eyes played hide-and-seek with Mr. Riddle’s.

  
“There’s no shame in it,” said Mr. Riddle. “We live long, long lives. Wizards, that is. But I’ll not consider you till you’ve reached seventeen. I must observe propriety, you understand. But here’s a gift. To tide you as we wait this torturous year out.” He offered Harry a rectangular package. The gift-paper was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Stars flitted about as a Tiny Boy danced while a Tiny Rose swayed. Harry was gripped with the certainty that Mr. Riddle had made this, himself.

  
“If the gift is half as pleasant as the gift-paper, you will have outdone everyone I know,” said Harry.

  
“I will always outdo everyone, in your eyes,” said Mr. Riddle. “I matter more than anyone else.”

  
“It is improper,” said Harry, “for a man your age to desire a boy my age.”

  
“I knew you when I was younger,” said Mr. Riddle. And Harry, thinking he meant fifteen years ago, said:

  
“I was younger, still.”

  
“No,” said Mr. Riddle. “You were older. Not by much, mind. But you were older and barely a year younger than me.”

  
“Are you an eccentric or a madman?” asked Harry.

  
“Neither,” said Mr. Riddle. “Simply, you time-travelled from my future and met me when I was twenty-one. I loved you and married you and buried you when you died. It was glorious.” Harry almost questioned it, but he was the smarter sort, you see. For, if one can create a stag made of light, one can certainly go back in time and fall in love with and marry a handsome man and die.

  
“You love me, still?” asked Harry.

  
“There is no way to stop,” said Mr. Riddle. “You never left me.” And Harry, who had been loved so sparsely and so frugally in his childhood, felt warm and happy and dizzy and grateful.

  
“Who are you?” asked Harry.

  
“Tom Riddle,” answered Mr. Riddle. “But also, I am Lord Voldemort.”

  
Harry dropped the present, as if it were a live grenade. He was betrayed, ruined. He ran and ran as fast as he could, heeding not the pained calls of his name which was pronounced as if it were God’s own.

  
An owl came to his window that night, black and mournful. It carried the gift in its talons and a Tiny Boy in its beak.

  
“Lo, how beautiful you are, my Rose,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“What use is this beauty, for it did not prevent you from orphaning me?” asked Harry, pained and wretched.

  
“Lo, how I love you more than there are stars in the sky,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“What use is your love, for it has condemned me to a life of abuse?” asked Harry, and he managed this through heart-rending sobs.

  
“I merely obeyed you, darling,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“And what cruel hour was it, when I decreed death unto my parents?” asked Harry.

  
“The hour where you understood that, if they lived, you would not be you,” answered the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“This is terrible,” wept Harry. “How can I love you, who murdered my family?”

  
“The same way I loved you, who turned my whole world on its head and said ‘This is up, now, and that is down.’,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice. “I have feared much in my life and you taught me that I needed but you to fight all terrors. I have come so far only on this faith. You have tamed me, darling. You are responsible for that which you tame. Reject me not.”

  
“Lo, your silver tongue,” said Harry.

  
“What use is my silver tongue, for it cannot win me the greatest treasure of all?” asked the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“One day,” said Harry. “One day, if you work hard enough, it may.” The Tiny Boy smiled in great relief.

  
“Goodnight,” said he in Mr. Riddle’s voice. The Tiny Boy sat down against one of Harry’s bigger books.

  
“Goodnight,” said Harry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wooing has begun. I hope it pleases. As always, do leave a comment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some French in this one. I'll translate the lyrics in the end note. But the song titles aren't important to the story. You can look them up later. They're all beautiful songs of another epoch.

Ever since that momentous day, Harry’s birthday, Mr. Riddle began to spend more and more time with Harry. He would brave his rose bushes and hang his arms over the fence between number 4 and number 5, chin propped between two pickets. He was so adorable, it melted Harry’s heart every time. Still, he also wondered how this middle-aged man managed to be cute.

  
While Harry worked on the begonias and petunias and dahlias and lilacs, Mr. Riddle would look around for muggles and, if he spied none, he would make the flowers sing old French songs. He seemed partial to Edith Piaf, as most Englishmen, who knew nothing of French Chanson, were. This is not to say that Edith Piaf was no good at all. Simply, she was the most famous and recognizable one. Once, there was a lady Mr. Riddle called Fréhel. Harry remembered her because her name was stranger than the rest.

  
So it was that, oftentimes, Harry would mow the lawn to the sound of a begonia singing _La vie en rose_ , paint the decorative bench to a petunia crooning _Si tu n'étais pas là_ , clean the driveway to a lilac intoning _Parlez-moi d'amour._

  
Mr. Riddle, when he thought Harry could not see, completed Harry’s chores with a few flicks of his wrist. You see, the quicker Harry was done, the quicker he could sidle up to the fence with a book he pretended to read while Mr. Riddle hummed along with the flowers.

  
On one such day, Harry was folded beneath the flowers of a creeping rose bush. Mr. Riddle had been humming along to _La Mer_ when, quite suddenly, he stopped and disappeared into his house. When he came back, he was holding a miniature sports car coloured with galaxies. He grinned at Harry and pointed to the street. Curious, Harry followed him to the asphalt. Mr. Riddle glanced around, likely making sure no muggle was there to see whatever feat of magic he was off to accomplish. He placed the car on the street and stepped away. With a flick of his wrist, the car expanded till it was regular-sized.

  
“This is your car?” asked Harry.

  
“It is,” confirmed Mr. Riddle.

  
“Did you make it?” asked Harry.

  
“It’s hardly rocket science,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“Are you modest or oblivious?” asked Harry.

  
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Riddle.

  
“Oblivious, then,” decided Harry. Mr. Riddle raised an eyebrow but Harry waved the question off.

  
“Well?” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“It’s a nice car,” complimented Harry.

  
“That’s not what I meant,” sighed Mr. Riddle. “Are you getting in?”

  
“Where would we go?” asked Harry.

  
“Well, I was singing _La Mer_ ,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“The beach is hours away from here,” objected Harry, for Mr. Riddle had, amongst other things, taken it upon himself to teach Harry all the French he knew.

  
“I do have it on good authority that I may know one or two tricks to get us there,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“Then, whatever do we need the car for?” asked Harry.

  
“So I might impress you by my many talents,” said Mr. Riddle. “I do intend to marry you on your seventeenth birthday.”

  
“That is a ridiculous age to marry,” said Harry.

  
“I’ve waited nearly sixty years,” countered Mr. Riddle. “You would have me wait some more?”

  
“Well, you must understand, I have waited not even one year,” said Harry. “I can hardly understand the depth of your desire and haste.” Mr. Riddle seemed to ponder this for a moment.

  
“What about twenty-one?” asked Mr. Riddle. “You were twenty-one and I was twenty-two when we first married. Would that suit you?”

  
“Fairly young,” mused Harry, “but I am overcome with a desire to agree. If I still find you pleasing when I am twenty-one, I shall pester you into some whirlwind wedding.”

  
“Our first wedding was also whirlwind,” chuckled Mr. Riddle. “I was penniless and peasant and you wished for my hand anyways. We confounded a muggle priest and married beneath plum blossoms. I have a picture, somewhere, I believe.”

  
“You must show me,” begged Harry.

  
“After I have cooked you golden on some beach,” promised Mr. Riddle. He opened the passenger door for Harry to climb in then went around to settle in the driver’s seat. First, he reversed till they reached number 1, then he flipped a few switches that had the car go invisible, then roar like a beast, making the invisibility rather moot. Mr. Riddle simply grinned when Harry pointed it out. He floored the accelerator and, with a window-shattering _BOOM,_ Privet Drive vanished. When, finally, Harry managed to make things out, they were driving on sand. How the sports car managed to keep its grip was beyond Harry. Then again, its owner was a wizard.

  
“There’s only sand for miles,” noted Harry.

  
“It _is_ the ‘Desert’ desert,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“Who names a desert ‘Desert’?” asked Harry.

  
“People who have no business naming anything,” answered Mr. Riddle. “But, in their defense, they named it ‘Sahara’. They must have thought themselves smart.”

  
“This is the Sahara?” asked Harry.

  
“It is,” confirmed Mr. Riddle. “And this is for you.” He opened a compartment and, from it, flew a Tiny Aviator in his tiny plane. This was not, in fact, the same Tiny Aviator that was gifted to Abraxas, so many years ago. That one was currently flying circles around one of the Malfoys’ peacocks while Draco chased after him in a bid to share adventures. This Tiny Aviator was made in number 5, from a little bit of wood transfigured from a little bit of paper. Mr. Riddle had made him, bent over his work table, while a noble Field Marshall Sheep had wandered up to personally wage war against a particularly stubborn baobab sapling.

  
“And why did you bring us to the Sahara?” asked Harry as he opened his window so the Tiny Aviator could go explore. He did not stray far from the car. “Did you divine the exact spot upon which the Little Prince landed?”

  
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Riddle. “I’ve narrowed it down to three precise spots he could have landed on. There, there and there.” He pointed in three random directions but drove towards neither spot.

  
“You, silly man,” said Harry with a chuckle. “You said you were taking me to the beach.”

  
“This _is_ a beach,” argued Mr. Riddle. “Only, it is a very large one.” He brought the car to a slow stop as he seemed to decide upon a spot. Before he let Harry out, he slathered the boy with sunscreen. They chased each other in the dunes, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls. At some point, Harry brought the Tiny Boy out of his pocket. The Tiny Aviator landed his tiny plane on Mr. Riddle’s head and climbed down a delicate ear so he could greet the Tiny Boy. The Tiny Boy and the Tiny Aviator engaged in deep conversation. They spoke of great adventures and beloved ones who were far. The Tiny Boy asked to see the Tiny Aviator’s tiny plane. Since it had an extra seat, the Tiny Aviator offered a trip to the Tiny Boy. Together, they climbed into the tiny plane.

  
“But not too far,” beseeched the Tiny Boy.

  
Harry and Mr. Riddle sat in the sand and watched the tiny plane make its way over the dunes. Mr. Riddle allowed Harry to bury his body beneath the sand. When Harry was done, he was but a handsome head sticking out of the sand.

  
“I shall excavate you, eventually,” promised Harry.

  
“I am no fossil to be excavated,” complained Mr. Riddle. Later, after he was dug out, Mr. Riddle began to sing as he swayed Harry into a dance.

  
_Parlez-moi d’amour,_  
_Redites-moi des choses tendres,_  
_Votre beau discours,_  
_Mon cœur n’est pas las de l’entendre._  
_Pourvu que toujours,_  
_Vous répétiez ces mots suprêmes:_  
_Je vous aime._

  
Later that night, as Harry was sat at his desk, reading The Little Prince once more, a strikingly handsome owl knocked at his window. It was not the same owl as the one on his birthday and Harry suspected that Mr. Riddle owned several owls which he would send depending on the mood. This owl seemed happier than the previous one.

  
The owl offered Harry a photo and a small package which was scarcely bigger than a thistle. The photo was of him and Mr. Riddle, married under plum blossoms of a most beautiful shade of red. As for the tiny package, when Harry went to open it, the Tiny Boy and the Tiny Aviator approached, excited. From within, came a Tiny Rose. She was so beautiful and the Tiny Boy broke into sobs when he saw her. He took her tiny leaf and pressed a chaste kiss upon it. The Tiny Rose flustered but she seemed so very happy. The Tiny Aviator stood to the side, aviator cap in his hands, as he waited, politely, to be introduced.

  
“Lo, your tender care,” whispered Harry.

  
“Has it procured your heart?” asked the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Almost,” answered Harry.

  
“I am tamed,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Was it my beauty?” asked Harry.

  
“That too, but more,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Was it my heart?” asked Harry.

  
“Precisely,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Precisely,” repeated Harry.

  
“My Rose,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“My Prince,” said Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation (loosely) of the lyrics to the chorus of "Parlez-moi d'amour":  
> Speak to me of Love,  
> Once more, say tender words to me,  
> Your speach, so beautiful,  
> My heart tires not of its sound.  
> Forever, I hope,  
> You repeat these words, supreme:  
> I love you. 
> 
> Funnily enough, while Chanson is the French word for 'song', it is also a musical category. The more you know. 
> 
> How was it? Was the French too much? As always, comments are much appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I was in another mood these past few days. I refrained from writing lest this turned into unnecessary smut.

One afternoon, while the flowers in Mr. Riddle’s, considerably more spacious, backyard sang Rina Ketty’s _J'attendrai,_ and Mr. Riddle was twirling Harry to its melody, there sounded a mighty crack, as if a bolt of thunder might have struck a tiny glass and shattered it into millions of pieces. Within minutes, Uncle Vernon was screaming at someone to get off his lawn. A mighty bark later, he was suddenly silenced. Quietly, Harry and Mr. Riddle crept up to the hedge separating the two backyards and peered into number 4.

  
“Sirius,” shouted Harry. He asked Mr. Riddle for a boost and was promptly tumbling over the hedge. Sirius’ face split into a wide smile as he gathered Harry in a bear hug.

  
“Boy!” interrupted Uncle Vernon. “I told you I wouldn’t have any of your kind here.”

  
“Did you?” asked Mr. Riddle who was bent at the waist over the hedge. Harry imagined his long legs dangling on the other side and giggled. “Well, you’re welcome to my backyard, sir.” He pushed off and dropped himself back into his own yard. There was a muffle ‘oomph’ as he, no doubt, landed on his behind. Mr. Riddle, Harry had noticed, was perfect in most senses but he had one hilarious flaw. He was so clumsy that Harry often wondered if his feet were not, in fact, both left ones. He ran into doors that were very obvious in their presence, tumbled over armchairs he accused of coming out of nowhere, tripped over supposedly invisible rocks that were most certainly the work of cornish pixies. Fortunately, he was a wizard and managed to not look as if he had an abusive spouse.

  
“Who’s that?” asked Sirius, even as he helped Harry over the hedge, into number 5. Uncle Vernon was spluttering about Mr. Riddle’s treachery for, as you know, the man had never said anything about being of Harry’s kind. Harry and Sirius ignored Uncle Vernon and climbed into number 5 where Mr. Riddle had managed to roll into a flower bed to avoid being landed upon.

  
“This,” said Harry as he helped Mr. Riddle up, “is Mr. Riddle. He’s a wizard too.”

  
“I think the singing flowers made it quite obvious,” said Sirius.

  
“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“No need for that,” said Sirius. “You’re probably my age. Though, now that I think about it… Say, did you attend Durmstrang? Because I can’t seem to remember you from Hogwarts and I’m of a mind that a man like you can’t possibly go unnoticed. Not even if you wanted to.”

  
“I did attend Hogwarts, actually,” said Mr. Riddle. “Only, I’m rather much older than you.”

  
“Older?” asked Sirius.

  
“A little under seventy,” said Mr. Riddle, all red in the face.

  
“Grandpa age, truly,” said Harry, causing Mr. Riddle to redden even further.

  
“Well,” said Sirius, sounding most impressed, “you’re incredibly well-preserved. I should very much like to hear your secret.”

  
“Not really,” said Mr. Riddle. “I have it on good authority that you’d find it quite unsavory.”

This claim seemed to darken Sirius’ mood a great deal. He placed himself between Harry and Mr. Riddle and allowed his wand to slip down his sleeve and into his waiting fingers.

  
“Dark magic, then,” said Sirius. “Perhaps Harry and I should leave now.”

  
“Dark magic, indeed,” confirmed Mr. Riddle. “But, please don’t leave. I’m fairly harmless when I’m not witless with fear. And I’m entirely harmless around Harry. Most of the time. Would you like some tea? I made biscuits as well. Chocolate chip and all.”

  
“And your kitchen still stands?” asked Harry.

  
“I’m not entirely helpless,” argued Mr. Riddle. “I did manage without you for a bit over fifty years.”

  
“I should hope so,” said Harry. “As far as I understand, I was only with you two years.”

  
“It was the best two years of my life,” said Mr. Riddle with such conviction that Harry felt warm in his stomach.

  
“Was it my cooking?” asked Harry.

  
“That too, but more,” answered Mr. Riddle.

  
“Was it my singing?” asked Harry.

  
“Your tone-deafness moved my very soul. Therefore, that too, but more,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“Was it my unconditional love?” asked Harry.

  
“Precisely,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“Precisely,” repeated Harry.

  
“Why, in Merlin’s name, are you _flirting_ with a man who is fifty-two years your senior?” demanded Sirius, scandalised. His face was contorted in horror as he used his entire body to hide Harry from Mr. Riddle’s view.

  
“We have his mother’s blessing,” said Mr. Riddle. “If it helps, any.”

  
“You mean, his _dead_ mother?” asked Sirius. “And how did you manage that? A Ouija board?”

  
“Not quite,” said Mr. Riddle. “I asked before she died.”

  
“Oh, and she just agreed, did she?” scoffed Sirius.

  
“After I showed her my memories, yes,” confirmed Mr. Riddle.

  
“Memories?” asked Sirius, momentarily stumped. “What memories?”

  
_“These_ memories,” said Harry as he pulled out the carefully folded picture that Mr. Riddle had sent him. In it, Harry and Mr. Riddle were grinning and waving at the camera. Then, they turned to kiss each other, chastely.

  
“What is this?” asked Sirius.

  
“It’s a picture of my wedding to the man I loved when I was in my twenties,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“And, what?” asked Sirius. “Harry looks just like him so you’re trying to seduce him?”

  
“What? No,” said Mr. Riddle. “How would I have even known what he would look like as a grown up if that were the case?”

  
“Then what is this?” asked Sirius who was now utterly bewildered, bamboozled, confounded.

  
“It’s only… Oh, I can tell you’ll think me insane,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“No worries, mate,” said Sirius. “I’m already of a mind that I should be holding you down and calling Janus Thickey.”

  
“Well, when I was twenty-one,” said Mr. Riddle. “I met a twenty-year-old Harry who had time-travelled and I fell in love with him. We married and we painted my tiny flat together and we were happy until he died. I’ve been waiting ever since.” Sirius closed his eyes, took a deep breath, released an aggravated sigh, crouched and screamed in his hands, and stood up with determination in his eyes.

  
“How do you know Harry is the same Harry as the one you loved?” asked Sirius.

  
“Because I made sure of it,” replied Mr. Riddle.

  
“And how did you make sure of it?” asked Sirius, a dangerous tone in his voice. When Mr. Riddle seemed to hesitate to answer, he asked: “Who are you?” And Mr. Riddle, who lied only by omission as he was compelled by his very nature to be truthful, said:

  
“Tom Riddle. But also, I am Lord Voldemort.”

  
At once, Sirius’s wand descended from its holster and Harry was sent tumbling back into number 4. Sirius soon followed and dragged Harry by the arm into the Dursleys’ home. He barrelled past an indignant Vernon and muttered a quick “Thank you” when Dudley, who had grown significantly nicer to Harry after his run-in with dementors, opened the tiny closet that held all of Harry’s magical possessions. Sirius gathered Harry’s trunk and broom and wand and walked out of number 4. Mr. Riddle was waiting on the sidewalk, twisting his hands nervously.

  
“If you'd-” he began.

  
“NO!” snarled Sirius. He glanced around for muggles while Harry sent an apologetic look in Mr. Riddle’s direction. He looked so miserable that it quite broke Harry’s heart. Before Harry could say a word, he felt himself squeezed through a tight tube, the memory of Mr. Riddle’s wretched expression etched in his mind’s eye.

  
As soon as they reached Grimmauld place, Harry bounded up the stairs to the room he shared with Ron. It was blessedly empty and Harry immediately brought out the Tiny Boy.

  
“Mr. Riddle, can you hear me?” asked Harry.

  
“I can,” came the choked response from the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Are you crying, sweetheart?” asked Harry.

  
“No,” denied the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

“You dare lie to me?” teased Harry. “Perhaps I should go do something else then.”

  
“No! Please,” begged the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice. “Stay… You’re right. I was lying and I’m so bad it.”

  
“Lo, how honest and true you are, my Prince,” said Harry.

  
“What use is this honesty, for it has cost me my greatest treasure?” cried the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Lo, your melodramatic imagination,” chuckled Harry.

  
“At least, my misery seems to entertain you,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice, bitterly. “I shall never see you again.”

  
“Dear, only give me but a few days,” said Harry. “I’ll have Sirius dragging you to the altar at wandpoint.”

  
“Lest the earth starts showing appreciation for the moon’s bum,” lamented the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice, “that will happen no time soon.”

  
“The moon will show off its bum and Sirius will take you for son-in-law,” promised Harry. “Have faith, sweet one.”

  
“Alright,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Now,” said Harry. “Sing for me.”

  
“What shall I sing?” asked the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Sing _Parlez-moi d’amour_ ,” said Harry. “It won you my heart.”

  
“But you said-”

  
“I was embarrassed, so I lied,” interrupted Harry. “Do you fault me?”

  
“No,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice. He began to sing _Parlez-moi d’amour_ and the Tiny Rose and Tiny Aviator decided to harmonise with him. It was a most beautiful concert and Sirius came in to listen at some point. When Mr. Riddle was done, Sirius had a strange expression on his face. He said nothing and left Harry at his desk. A few moments later, Ron rushed in to call Harry for dinner.

  
“I’ll see you later,” said Harry.

  
“Can’t you take me with you?” asked the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“It speaks!” said Ron, startled. “Fascinating.”

  
“So is the wizard who made it,” said Harry. “He’s the one who’s speaking. Say hello to Mr. Riddle.”

  
“Hullo, sir,” said Ron. “Terribly sorry to bother your discussion but I do need to get Harry to dinner. My mum is a real tyrant about these things, she is.”

  
“Go, then,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  
“Have faith,” repeated Harry.

  
“I will,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping there's only 3-4 chapters left but this was supposed to be a one-shot and we're now at 8 chapters, so... We'll see. As always, comments are most welcome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm disappointed that no one caught the Gumball reference last chapter. (ಥ_ಥ)
> 
> Also, this is shorter than usual but that was the right place to end this chapter, so...

Sirius spent the following week watching Harry like a hawk. He hovered over Harry’s shoulder whenever he even so much as stepped a foot out of number 12. He lingered in doorways, took the seat next to Harry, read his letters over his shoulder. He was stuck to Harry as if he were gum on the sole of a shoe. Ron and Hermione found it hilarious to no end but Harry was less than pleased.

  
You see, every night, right after diner, Mr. Riddle would call Harry through the Tiny Boy and profess sweet love. Under normal circumstances, this would be naught but a most precious moment between Harry and the man who loved him. Unfortunately, under Sirius’ tyrannical rule, Harry found himself sharing Mr. Riddle’s confessions with his ill-mannered godfather.

  
“I pray for but a glimpse of your beautiful eyes,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“I pray you die,” answered Sirius.

  
“I pray you hear but my voice,” apologised Harry.

  
“I miss you so,” said the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“I miss my murdered friends,” snapped Sirius.

  
“I miss your love,” mumbled Harry. “Both of yours.”

  
“But I love you still,” protested the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“And I love you more,” added Sirius.

  
“And yet, you fight,” lamented Harry.

  
“I won’t forgive,” snarled Sirius. He stormed out of the room leaving Harry sullen and the Tiny Boy crestfallen.

  
“You are lost to me,” whispered the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
“Give up and you shall know true loss,” threatened Harry.

  
“I won’t!” declared the Tiny Boy in Mr. Riddle’s voice.

  
The next day, there came a ring at the door to number 12. Every person in the house came to a standstill. As you likely remember, number 12 was warded under the Fidelius charm and anyone who was in on the secret did not ring the door bell or knock on the door. Hence, the innocuous little ring was nothing short of a panic-inducing incident.

  
Sirius and Mr. Weasley both pulled out their wands and crept slowly towards the door. Armed with a battalion of knives, ready for war, Mrs. Weasley followed them. George went off to peer at the doorstep through the living’s window.

  
“It’s Prince Charming,” he commented, lightly.

  
“What?” asked Hermione from her perch on the second floor’s railing.

  
“You know,” said George. “The handsome bloke that keeps appearing in all your muggle fairy tales. He’s got game, that bloke. All the princesses fall for him. Which princess is he here for, then?”

  
“Well, we only have the one Princess,” answered Fred winking in Harry’s direction. Harry looked away, intensely mortified. Hermione was less than impressed, however.

  
“What nonsense?” said she. “It’s not the same Prince Charming in all the stories. It just so happens that the princes are neither interesting enough nor consequential enough to warrant a name. The only things they can legitimately claim to have done is marry the princesses.”

  
“Well,” said Fred, “this Prince Charming seems to be going against the trend.”

  
“Prince Charming, my arse,” growled Sirius from where he was staring through a window to the side of the door. “More like the Villain.”

  
“Honestly,” sighed Harry. He sat next to Hermione and waited for Sirius to deign open the door. Wand held high, Sirius did just that.

  
“Hello-” began Mr. Riddle.

  
“Save it,” interrupted Sirius, most rudely. “What are you here for?”

  
“I wished to speak to you about Harry and I,” said Mr. Riddle.

  
“There is no Harry and you,” snapped Sirius. “Now, _leave.”_ He pointed, insistently, towards to street.

  
“Please, Sirius,” begged Harry.

  
“No!” said Sirius with such finality that Harry broke into heart-rending sobs. Mr. Riddle looked upon him with such horror and pain in his eyes.

  
_“Please,”_ implored Mr. Riddle. “Just one conversation.” And Sirius, who was by no means cold-hearted, relented in the face of Harry’s tears.

  
“Only because I love him,” said Sirius, jaw tightly locked. He nodded to Mr. Weasley who immediately lowered his wand and asked Mrs. Weasley to call Dumbledore and make sure that none of the children came within an inch of the study. He, then, disappeared with Mr. Riddle behind a huge mahogany door. Mr. Weasley attempted to distract Harry with questions on the functions of a computer which he called ‘pomcuter’ for some reason Harry could not quite understand. Eventually, there was a green fire in the fireplace and Dumbledore strode out, purposefully. He smiled widely in Harry’s direction and entered the study. Mrs. Weasley stood sentry after him.

  
Three hours later, Mr. Riddle finally emerged from the study, eyes rimmed with red. He looked at Harry and shook his head in desolation. Harry ran to him and pulled him in a tight embrace, afraid that if he would let go, Mr. Riddle would simply disappear forever.

  
“No,” sobbed Harry.

  
“I’m sorry,” whispered Mr. Riddle. “I’m so, so sorry.” He pressed his tears into Harry’s wild hair.

  
“Don’t leave me,” begged Harry. “I am but a Rose. If you are gone, I shall be overcome by the ferocity of the baobabs.”

  
“You shall live,” said Mr. Riddle. “You are surrounded by an Army of valiant Sheep.”

  
“But I love you,” whimpered Harry as he hid his face against Mr. Riddle’s chest. “I shall wither without your tender love.”

  
“You are unique in the world, My Rose,” said Mr. Riddle. “The Sheep know as much, believe as much. You shall never be without love.”

  
“You are forever lost to me,” mourned Harry.

  
“I am forever with you,” argued Mr. Riddle. “Forget not that that which is most important can only be seen with the heart.”

“You are forever with me,” agreed Harry.

  
Mr. Riddle turned to leave and, for a long time after he was gone, Harry stared at the spot from which he had disapparated.

  
“I loved him so,” said Harry when Sirius appeared to entreat him to come back inside.

  
“Dumbledore plead for him,” said Sirius.

  
“He understands more than most,” said Harry.

  
“I cannot forgive,” said Sirius, brokenly.

  
“I know,” said Harry, with a sad little smile. “I only wish your love were greater than your grief.”

  
“Do not hate me,” implored Sirius.

  
“Never,” vowed Harry. “But I loved him so.”

  
“And I have broken your heart,” lamented Sirius.

  
“Aye,” said Harry. “Aye, you have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, yes. What, did you truly expect Sirius to forgive that easily? I believe there's at least one more chapter of this before things get better for Harry and his Mr. Riddle. Comments are most welcome, as always. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're nearing the end. How exciting!

One morning, Tom woke up with the first rays of sunlight. The Elder sheep grazed, lazily, on baobabs on the wall across. Two months after leaving Grimmauld Place, Tom had sold Number 5, Privet Drive, and moved back to the tiny flat he had shared with Harry all those years ago. Abraxas had bought the apartment complex a week after Tom had left for his adventures and the paintings and furniture had been preserved just as Tom had left them. No one had been allowed to move into the flat.

  
The flat was filled with sheep that were still fighting the good fight against the baobabs. I regret to inform you that, though the sheep had evolved greatly as a society -they even had skyscrapers and sheepmobiles- the baobab problem remained unsolvable. The sheep would eat the saplings and new baobabs would spring again. There really was no solution, aside from eating the saplings. Truly tragic.

  
“Darling,” called Tom, as he did every morning for the past four years since he had moved back into the tiny flat. Of course, he never expected an answer since he lived alone. Therefore, what happened next was nothing short of utterly baffling.

  
“Over here,” came a most familiar voice. Tom ran out of the room, rapidly pulling a pair of sleeping trousers up.

  
“Harry,” breathed Tom. And, indeed, it was Harry. He was sat upon a stool, dressed in blue denim overalls, a paintbrush in hand, and red paint on his forehead.

  
“Love,” greeted Harry. “Breakfast is on the table. I made bacon. I figure everyone likes bacon. Unless you’re vegetarian. Are you? Vegetarian, I mean.”

  
“No, ’m not,” mumbled Tom. “What- How- Whu- I don’t understand.” Harry smiled good-naturedly and turned back to his painting. He was colouring in the eyes of a handsome Prince who seemed to be marrying a beautiful Rose under the stars.

  
“It’s July 31st, today,” said Harry. “I’m twenty-one.”

  
“What does that mean?” asked Tom. He _did_ remember the promise Harry had made him four years ago. Only, he remembered how scathingly disapproving Sirius had been and he could not imagine that that had changed in the past four years. Therefore, Tom dared not hope. Not even a little. The pain of disappointment would be too great.

  
“It means,” said Harry, “that you have three days to get ready, for I am marrying you on the third of August, even if I have to drag you to the altar by the hair.”

  
“But Sirius-” protested Tom.

  
“Sirius is going to suck it and be happy for me,” said Harry. “If you still need his blessing, we can try and convince him in the next three days but I don’t care. I’m twenty-one and I promised you that I would marry you if I still loved you by then. Well, I do. So, we’re bloody well marrying in three days.”

  
“But,” reasoned Tom, “can you truly be happy despite Sirius’ disapproval?”

  
“Clearly, you do not know him well,” said Harry. “He will sulk for a while. But then, he will come to the conclusion that, if he is to be part of my life, he will have to learn to tolerate you. And Sirius, my dear, loves me infinitely more than he hates you.”

  
“His love did not stop him from separating us four years ago,” argued Tom.

  
“Well, I am no longer sixteen,” said Harry. “There is nothing he can do if he wishes to still be part of my life.”

  
“What if you resent me?” asked Tom.

  
“Whatever would I do that for?” asked Harry.

  
“For robbing you of your last parent,” said Tom.

  
“That is not your doing,” said Harry. “I asked you to kill my parents.”

  
“How is it that you believe me?” asked Tom. “You have never seen my memories. You don’t know.”

  
“I can’t say,” answered Harry. “I simply feel like you speak nothing but the truth to me.”

  
“How dearly you love me,” breathed Tom.

  
“And how dearer you love me,” said Harry.

  
“Forever,” vowed Tom.

  
“Forever,” agreed Harry.

  
Three days later, they married under the same plum tree from all those years ago. The muggle priest, this time, needed not be bewitched for he was the sort that believed in love and cared little for the gender of the grooms.

  
Harry’s friends were present. His muggleborn friend, Hermione, beamed in her Maid of Honour dress and Ron, with his gold-red hair and freckles, called Tom ‘You-know-who’ and vowed to cut off his you-know-what if Tom ever made Harry cry. Hermione promised she would personally rust a spoon for that purpose and hold Tom down if it came down to it. He believed them. The rest of the Weasley family was also there. Sirius was not.

  
Lucius and his wife came on behalf of Tom. Lucius stood as his Best Man. He sniffed in Mr. Weasley’s direction and Mr. Weasley made the ugliest conceivable face at him. Offended and disgusted, Lucius looked away, prompting the Weasley boys into uproarious laughter. Ignoring them, Lucius praised Harry’s robes and attempted to flatten his hair. He was grossly unsuccessful but Harry thanked him for his consideration, nevertheless.

  
“I like it that way,” assured Tom as Lucius stared at the wild mess, morosely.

  
While the plum tree was no longer blossoming, it was laden with the purple fruit and, after the wedding ceremony, the attendees joined Tom and Harry in a merry picking, by the end of which, everyone had sticky fingers and shiny lips.

  
It was a happy day, marred only by Sirius’ glaring absence. Despite Harry’s assurances, Tom caught him, time and again, staring forlornly at the orchard’s gates.

  
“I am ever so sorry,” said Tom.

  
“It is hardly the end,” said Harry. “He will come around. He loves me, I know.”

  
“I love you,” said Tom, pressing a kiss against Harry’s silent tears.

  
“And I, you,” replied Harry.

  
Over the next year, Harry and Tom lived well and happily. Sometimes, when his friends came to visit, Harry would glance over their shoulders, with a hope that was quickly dashed by someone’s head shaking. Harry would give them a sad smile, but it was quickly forgotten amidst the chatting and general antics of the evening. It was harder for Tom to forget for he was acutely aware that, had it not been for him, Sirius would still be part of Harry’s life.

  
“Give it time,” said Harry. “He loves me. Truly, he does.” Tom wondered at Harry’s unerring faith, wondered how he could find it in himself to reassure Tom. What confidence was it, that made him believe that, one day, Sirius would grow weary of the distance and embrace Harry again? “It is you, my love, who give me such faith.”

  
“Me?” asked Tom, surprised.

  
“For you have loved me, unwaveringly, for more than fifty years,” said Harry. “How can I not have faith?” And truly, what could Tom say to that?

  
And so, they were happy for almost a year. Alas, as Harry neared twenty-two, things seemed to come full circle.

  
One morning, Tom woke with the first rays of sunlight. The Elder sheep bleated at him, glumly. It trotted off, out of the bedroom, and bleated, once more.

  
“Darling,” called Tom. And, of course, there was no answer for we all know which terrible day, today was. Tom knew as well. Of course, he did. _Of course_ , he did. But just as our hearts break for him, so did Tom’s own. Just a moment more. For a second longer, let us allow him to pretend that the Rose of B612, had stepped out for eggs. Or perhaps it was milk he searched for.

  
But, no. Things had come full circle and there, upon the cold floor, lay the Rose of B612.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I can hear your collective "why, bitch, why?!" Bear with me. This was bound to happen again. The illness wouldn't have disappeared just because the era is different, would it? 
> 
> Now, then. Please comment. I know this is shameless begging but the kudos don't really give me any understanding of how you liked a chapter, seeing as you can only leave it once. Comments can be left as many times as you like. Please, please, please, let me know how you liked it.


	11. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is the end of this pretentious story! I found peace here and I hope some of you did, despite all the sadness. I hadn't intended for there to be so much misery. Guys, this was only supposed to be a one-shot that somehow became a whole story. I hope this ending does not disappoint.

Life is… marvelous, for lack of a better word. We walk and we run. We laugh and we cry. We dance and we nap. We love and we worship. And then… Then, we are forgotten, lost to the wiles of time and buried in the memories of the dead and the living. Marvelous, isn’t it?

  
Three years after Tom had found his Rose on the floor of his tiny flat, people had moved on.

Hermione and Ron had married and were readying for their first child. Hermione was moving fast up the ranks of the Ministry and her swollen belly was no deterrent, for Ron was a calm adult who balanced her impetuous storm of incessant justice for all living things. She brought order to the entire wizarding world and he brought a safe space to hers.

  
Remus and Tonks were busy running after Teddy, trying to keep him in one piece. As he grew, he seemed to become more and more prone to finding all sorts of trouble, following in the lively footsteps of his godfather before him. As a result, Remus’ hair seemed to be turning white at an alarming rate. Things seemed to come to a head when Tonks announced another pregnancy and Remus publicly prayed for a calm daughter this time. Fred had happily cursed him to have an equally troublesome girl.

  
Ginny was Seeking for the Holyhead Harpies. Devoid of any marital expectations, seeing as her brothers were all happily married and producing offspring faster than was normal, Ginny had found a liberty that was yet denied many girls her age. As she grew in fame, so did her need to be a role model and a gateway towards greater freedom for young girls.

  
Fred and George were at the forefront of the jokeshop industry. Of course they were. There was no one on the market quite as ingenious as they were. Their inventions found their ways into the trunks of every Hogwarts-bound boy and girl, despite Filch’s ban and the Twins soon found themselves richer than the Malfoys, even.

  
Tom, himself, had managed to take over the MoM. He had placed Lucius up as his Minister and acted as a political advisor. When he was not advising Lucius, Tom spent the hours between 0800 and 1700, tending to his little Apothecary and listening to the complaints of Knockturn Alley’s visitors and inhabitants. Sirius, contrary as ever, had taken to sullenly arranging the store displays and working on the business plans for the opening of their second location. Lucius never failed to stand at his shoulder and nitpick at everything. When this happened, Sirius would often cast a pitiful look in Tom’s direction. Unfortunately, even Tom cowered in the face of Lucius’ interminable nagging.

  
_“Where is he?” cried Sirius. “Where’s Harry?” Tom looked up from Harry’s bedside to watch his disheveled godfather-in-law bound through the hospital ward. Harry chuckled against Tom’s fingers which had been curled against his lips in an effort to prevent the silly boy from trying to make Tom promise that he would live happily even after Harry._

  
_“Finally,” sighed Harry as Sirius gathered him in a tight embrace. Tom, feeling suddenly inexplicably angry, pried the dog-man off his ailing spouse. Harry frowned at the separation but the Tiny Fox, which Tom had brought along for emotional support, dropped its tiny, golden ginger tail against Harry’s lips. The Tiny Fox was wise and good and Harry had, thankfully, long learned that its actions led only to good outcomes. So it was that silence he kept as Tom raged tearfully and Sirius cowered, shamed._

  
_“I’m sorry,” whispered Sirius when Tom was finally done, looking as if he had been found guilty of a severe crime._

  
_“Therefore,” said Harry, “I sentence you a lifetime of never leaving me again.” Sirius, grateful and regretful, lifted Harry’s limp body into his arms._

  
_“Never again,” promised Sirius._

  
_“Don’t leave me,” begged Tom, after Sirius had gone, leaving with a promise to return in the morning. “I cannot search for you in roses, again.”_

  
_“Dear Prince,” beseeched Harry, “dry your tears for I am not leaving. I shall never leave you, I vow it.”_

  
_“Don’t leave me,” begged Tom, once more. “I cannot search for you in sunlight, again.”_

  
_“Dear Prince,” entreated Harry, “banish your fear, for I am not leaving. I shall stay until time itself ends, I vow it.”_

  
_“Dear Rose,” wept Tom, “why must you break my heart again? Was once not enough?”_

  
_“Love,” called Harry, smiling tiredly._

  
_“Life,” called Tom, crying for all that, soon, would be lost._

  
_In a fit of desperation, Tom cast and cast, powerful and heartbroken and, with a sigh of relief, Harry fell into a deep slumber, to be_ _awoken only when Tom was ready to save him._

  
_“It is hardly the end,” said the Tiny Fox, curling its little tail around Tom’s pinky._

  
_“It is hardly the end,” agreed Tom._

  
Tom pushed a mug of steaming tea into Sirius’ hands. The older man was sat at the foot of a huge shelf of books upon books, in the Black library. He sighed as Tom went back to his drafts and research.

  
“This is leading us nowhere,” said Sirius, frustrated.

  
“I’m almost there, you pessimistic dog,” sighed Tom. It seemed that they had had this same conversation every day for the past three years. Still, Tom understood why he was so hopeless. They had worked towards a solution for so long that it was starting to seem as if they would have to give up soon.

  
“This,” said Sirius, suddenly waving a book at Tom, wide-eyed and hopeful for the first time in a while. “What is _this?!”_ It was a children’s book, a story by Beedle the Bard. It spoke of death and three brothers that had conquered it. In the corner sat, innocuously, a symbol that Tom had cast his sights upon, repeatedly.

  
“Hope,” said Tom as he showed Sirius an ugly ring, stolen from his wretched uncle and tainted with the evils of his youth. In its surface was etched the same symbol they had found in the book: a circle within a triangle that were, both, bisected by a line.

  
The cloak, they found, belonged to the Rose, already, a faithful screen against the harsh winds of B612. The stone, Tom placed, cracked and unburdened of its evil, upon Harry’s gunmetal wedding ring. And finally, finally, Harry was woken for the wand. Dumbledore stood at the end of his bed, solemn.

  
“For your love, you must disarm me,” said Dumbledore. He smiled and pointed his wand at Harry, as if he were to cast a curse upon Tom’s Rose. It pained Tom to stand aside and do nothing, even as his whole being screamed that his Rose was being attacked by a baobab. Only, Sirius’ tight hand on his shoulder reminded him that Dumbledore was no Baobab as Tom had long led himself to believe. No, Dumbledore was but a humble Elder Sheep, fighting valiantly against any and all baobab infestation. It was simply that, in his old age, it had become difficult for the Old Sheep to distinguish simple weed from catastrophic baobab. As, Harry calmly disarmed Dumbledore, Tom stood by and quietly watched his love, trust and hope in his belly.

  
Now, dear friends, we have come to the end of this story and, surely, I leave you with questions still unanswered, stories untold. And yet, for our purpose, for this story, here is your final answer:

  
The Little Prince and his Rose, in Eternity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dagnabit. It feels equally as disatisfying to me as it feels satisfying. I almost took away Tom's immortality and made it so only Harry would be immortal. But I promised a Happy Ending. I'll allow you to imagine what that looks like. Hopefully it's as idyllic as ever. Well, then. I hope you enjoyed this story and that the end was good for you. 
> 
> As always, allow me to shamelessly beg for your comments. They make me feel good in my two-sizes-too-small heart. Gift me with your words so I may understand the magic of Christmas! (Lol, I know. Wtf. It's already January 2nd, you late hermit.)


End file.
